Finally met The Dude a week ago when Katerina thought fit to bring him home. A nice chap, odd shoes but a nice chap we agreed. And very tactile I noted.
His hands were forever on Katerina, stroking her hair, massaging her back. Dainty.
He seemed clever, easy going and was great looking. Now that she has given herself a choice, it would make sense to set up a spread sheet and compare The Boy and The Dude in terms of their virtues and faults.
Having said this My Excel skills are fairly limited so perhaps I should leave this to Katerina herself for she is an Excel professional.
During the course of the evening I mentioned something about the attraction Katerina gains from an ocean of men every time she ventures out. The Dude asked whether he should be worried in this respect.
Needless to say, my lips were sealed.
Although, i now get the distinct impression that he is single. And that the text messages will slowly increase until he's a fully fledged boyfriend. And that's when Katerina's true test will begin dare i say it.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
THe Dame
Alas The Dame has taken the plunge! Alas The Dame has bitten the bullet! Alas The Dame has had a fanny fiddle! Alas!
If I were able to decorate this entry with e-tinsel and e-glitter I would.
Three days ago it happened. An internet date.
‘We’d been talking for ages and had a date arranged. One night we were speaking and I said I couldn’t wait until Tuesday to see, let’s meet up now. She felt the exact same thing, she said. I drove down to London that night and we got along well enough to spend the entire evening and indeed most part of the early morning making out on her bed’.
‘Did you have a proper fiddle?’ I asked, barely unable to control my excitement.
‘No’.
Mind you, an oven that hasn’t been utilised for half a decade is most certainly going to require pre heating before you can pull out a fluffy soufflé. And with this thought I was satisfied. The Dame had made efforts, and been successful in meeting a girl she liked who liked her in return. She was happy and so was I.
If I hadn’t been so caught up in her tale, I’d have asked for a formal written report, goodness knows her jobs has provided her enough skills to do this with.
And it came as little surprise, though enough to produce an inner scream, when The Dame text me whilst I was on the train, saying:
‘Ok. So I spent all night last night having hot sex. U should be proud of me.’
Of course I was proud of her. Although we all knew this was well overdue.
A toast on this auspicious occasion. Long live The Dame!
If I were able to decorate this entry with e-tinsel and e-glitter I would.
Three days ago it happened. An internet date.
‘We’d been talking for ages and had a date arranged. One night we were speaking and I said I couldn’t wait until Tuesday to see, let’s meet up now. She felt the exact same thing, she said. I drove down to London that night and we got along well enough to spend the entire evening and indeed most part of the early morning making out on her bed’.
‘Did you have a proper fiddle?’ I asked, barely unable to control my excitement.
‘No’.
Mind you, an oven that hasn’t been utilised for half a decade is most certainly going to require pre heating before you can pull out a fluffy soufflé. And with this thought I was satisfied. The Dame had made efforts, and been successful in meeting a girl she liked who liked her in return. She was happy and so was I.
If I hadn’t been so caught up in her tale, I’d have asked for a formal written report, goodness knows her jobs has provided her enough skills to do this with.
And it came as little surprise, though enough to produce an inner scream, when The Dame text me whilst I was on the train, saying:
‘Ok. So I spent all night last night having hot sex. U should be proud of me.’
Of course I was proud of her. Although we all knew this was well overdue.
A toast on this auspicious occasion. Long live The Dame!
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Colleagues
A change of job equals a change of people. Let me introduce you to some of my work colleagues:
'Miss e-numbers' - in the queue at the work canteen we passed the mushy peas, as you do. 'What do you thinks in those peas that make them so green?' she asked.
'Hmm, crushed emeralds?' i volunteered. She wasn't impressed.
'Peas aren't usually so green' she persisted ' they're probably full of additives and preservatives.
'Probably, shall we just get some anyways? i suggested and helped myself to a big dollop, seen as it was Fish n Chip Friday and everything.
She must be a careful eater I concluded. Good for her. Goodness knows too many people eat too much shit these days, most without even realising it.
And on the second date she took my bag of Percy pigs and began to read the ingredients.
'Well the flavourings aren't artificial which is good but there are still e numbers which are bad for you' she said.
'Are there?' i said, noticing that my pace was quickening as i ate them growing more and more fearful that she was going to chuck them in the dustbin.
On day three we had training. Training with bottles of sparkling and still water placed neatly on the desks.
'Is fizzy water bad for you?' she asked. 'How do they put the air in the water?'
'Do i look like Delia? I asked. A wasted joke considering she's a Kiwi.
And if i recall correctly, that entire lunch time was spent discussing what sort of air was used to make carbonated water. None of us were quite sure and to my surprise, far too many people were bothered about this issue.
And then yesterday she told me that i was far better off drinking full fat fizzy drinks. Diet drinks (which I happen to loathe), she said, were full of crap, just full of it.
'Well, they're too sweet for me' i said, trying to form an opinion.
Of course E numbers are horrid things. Of course we'd all love to buy pots of fruit and organic yogurt with our money.
Can't we simply eat it instead of talking about it? It would seem the answer is no.
My Percy Pigs are now forever hidden in my bag.
Other than that, she's adorable - this Kiwi of mine.
And then there are the fully fledged Australians with whom I work.
'Tell me something,' I said to one of the Ozzy's sitting opposite me, 'why don't Australians say strewth sheila more often'.
Now, every time he sees me he says ' Strewth, what are those Sheilas up to?'
And each time it makes me happy. Strewth it's great!
'Miss e-numbers' - in the queue at the work canteen we passed the mushy peas, as you do. 'What do you thinks in those peas that make them so green?' she asked.
'Hmm, crushed emeralds?' i volunteered. She wasn't impressed.
'Peas aren't usually so green' she persisted ' they're probably full of additives and preservatives.
'Probably, shall we just get some anyways? i suggested and helped myself to a big dollop, seen as it was Fish n Chip Friday and everything.
She must be a careful eater I concluded. Good for her. Goodness knows too many people eat too much shit these days, most without even realising it.
And on the second date she took my bag of Percy pigs and began to read the ingredients.
'Well the flavourings aren't artificial which is good but there are still e numbers which are bad for you' she said.
'Are there?' i said, noticing that my pace was quickening as i ate them growing more and more fearful that she was going to chuck them in the dustbin.
On day three we had training. Training with bottles of sparkling and still water placed neatly on the desks.
'Is fizzy water bad for you?' she asked. 'How do they put the air in the water?'
'Do i look like Delia? I asked. A wasted joke considering she's a Kiwi.
And if i recall correctly, that entire lunch time was spent discussing what sort of air was used to make carbonated water. None of us were quite sure and to my surprise, far too many people were bothered about this issue.
And then yesterday she told me that i was far better off drinking full fat fizzy drinks. Diet drinks (which I happen to loathe), she said, were full of crap, just full of it.
'Well, they're too sweet for me' i said, trying to form an opinion.
Of course E numbers are horrid things. Of course we'd all love to buy pots of fruit and organic yogurt with our money.
Can't we simply eat it instead of talking about it? It would seem the answer is no.
My Percy Pigs are now forever hidden in my bag.
Other than that, she's adorable - this Kiwi of mine.
And then there are the fully fledged Australians with whom I work.
'Tell me something,' I said to one of the Ozzy's sitting opposite me, 'why don't Australians say strewth sheila more often'.
Now, every time he sees me he says ' Strewth, what are those Sheilas up to?'
And each time it makes me happy. Strewth it's great!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Food and Politics
You want me to what? Talk about Delia? Oh, alright then.
The Queen of cookery, she who taught us how to boil an egg, is now insisting that some eggs should be reared in battery farms so that poor people can eat them.
And this week there has been an awful lot said about battery farms and their neccesity compared with the distress they cause to millions of chickens.
All said and doen, however, it's the mothers I feel sorry for.
The mothers of young children who not only have to worry about whether their children will grow to be intelligent, good looking, wise and intellectual; but also whether that dress will make them look fat so that their husbands' eyes never venture beyond the waist; or whether the bath is running for the children, or whether they have enough time to make dinner and fit that yoga class in before the children come back from school. Yes, now these women have one more thing to worry about. Whether that chicken they picked up at the supermarket is actually cornfed.
Battery farms and wrong and miserable chickens don't taste nice - fact. Organic food is expensive and therefore only a realistic option for the middle class or highly ambitious working class - fact.
Food should be about food and not about politics - fact
I'll never dislike Delia because she taught me how to make super roast potatoes - fact.
The Queen of cookery, she who taught us how to boil an egg, is now insisting that some eggs should be reared in battery farms so that poor people can eat them.
And this week there has been an awful lot said about battery farms and their neccesity compared with the distress they cause to millions of chickens.
All said and doen, however, it's the mothers I feel sorry for.
The mothers of young children who not only have to worry about whether their children will grow to be intelligent, good looking, wise and intellectual; but also whether that dress will make them look fat so that their husbands' eyes never venture beyond the waist; or whether the bath is running for the children, or whether they have enough time to make dinner and fit that yoga class in before the children come back from school. Yes, now these women have one more thing to worry about. Whether that chicken they picked up at the supermarket is actually cornfed.
Battery farms and wrong and miserable chickens don't taste nice - fact. Organic food is expensive and therefore only a realistic option for the middle class or highly ambitious working class - fact.
Food should be about food and not about politics - fact
I'll never dislike Delia because she taught me how to make super roast potatoes - fact.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Wedding gifts
Had dinner with Cordelia last night.
She and her BoyF have been threatening marriage for a long time, much to my horror.
During our meal, she told me something her BoyF had told her previously.
'When we get married, instead of accepting gifts, let's ask people for money which we will send to Africa where they can build a well' he said.
I couldn't control myself any longer. And neither could she.
'But I want a fridge and kettle', she declared.
Too bloody right. I'm all for charity, but wedding's are selfish. Fact. Deal. With. It. Well in Africa my arse.
She and her BoyF have been threatening marriage for a long time, much to my horror.
During our meal, she told me something her BoyF had told her previously.
'When we get married, instead of accepting gifts, let's ask people for money which we will send to Africa where they can build a well' he said.
I couldn't control myself any longer. And neither could she.
'But I want a fridge and kettle', she declared.
Too bloody right. I'm all for charity, but wedding's are selfish. Fact. Deal. With. It. Well in Africa my arse.
Tales of Katerina
So there was The Boy, Katerina's boyF, (who incidentally happens to like me a little more, for now, I appear to him to be 'cool').
And now we have The Dude.
The Dude met her on the escalators at Oxford Street, asked if she was trendy and whether she would mind accompanying him to Topman where she proceeded to advise him that red cardigans weren't as gay as he may have imagined. And so he bought it, took her hand the entire way, purchased a few other items, managed to get her number and left it at that.
The next time they met was a week later. He took her to a bar and they had some food. At the bar he felt an urge to show her how to taste wine properly. Of course, this is no easy feat and requires further proximity. Close enough to feel his breath on he neck, perhaps.
' A glass of wine and I'm anybody's' she declared, has declared for a long time.'
And they did kiss. Lots of kisses in that bar that night. Though, nothing more.
And when she returned, I was mysteriously no longer tired and beckoned her into my bedroom. There she sat on the edge of my bed and told me details of that evening.
'If The Boy asks, I was with you and Belle de Bengal watching the premiere'.
'Of course. And what was you opinion on the film?' I asked.
And since that time there was another date, perhaps the most productive of the lot.
'I'm perfectly happy with The Boy, I really hope The Dude doesn't call. In fact, if he does I won't pick up' she said, the night before.
In fact, If I'm honest, I began to doubt whether she would go out with The Dude again.
A text later that day:
'He asked me to Salsa, how I could I refuse?' Indeed, how could she?
Where The Boy kept her indoors and away from his friends, The Dude showed her off and taught her to salsa. Where The Boy calls and calls and doesn't tire, despite the mundane conversation, The Dude hardly ever communicates. In this respect, they are similar, both he and Katerina. Playing the unclingy game is something both are apt are - thorough professionals.
So, that night, when Aliena and I returned from our night and the flat was dark and silent I'd assumed she had returned back to his.
This was until the door went and down she came, wrapped in a turquoise towel, hair dishevelled, wearing glasses, all the better to see us I'm sure.
'Do you want a condom?' I asked
'I don't need a condom to suck' she replied, and off she went, aqua to the wind.
And the morning after, as soon as I heard the door bang shut I scrambled to the window and peered out for the first sight of The Dude. Misery! They'd already gone!
On the night of fumbling, Katerina declared that his bum was too soft.
'The Boy has a great bum, a better bum' she said.
Alas, i am pleased. Pleased that she now has choices. Comparisons to make, different bums to compare, cocks to compare.
Where The Boy walks behind her, The Dude holds her hands, and for those moments they are together, they are each others.
Riding the dual carraigeway like this, it must be thrilling.
And now we have The Dude.
The Dude met her on the escalators at Oxford Street, asked if she was trendy and whether she would mind accompanying him to Topman where she proceeded to advise him that red cardigans weren't as gay as he may have imagined. And so he bought it, took her hand the entire way, purchased a few other items, managed to get her number and left it at that.
The next time they met was a week later. He took her to a bar and they had some food. At the bar he felt an urge to show her how to taste wine properly. Of course, this is no easy feat and requires further proximity. Close enough to feel his breath on he neck, perhaps.
' A glass of wine and I'm anybody's' she declared, has declared for a long time.'
And they did kiss. Lots of kisses in that bar that night. Though, nothing more.
And when she returned, I was mysteriously no longer tired and beckoned her into my bedroom. There she sat on the edge of my bed and told me details of that evening.
'If The Boy asks, I was with you and Belle de Bengal watching the premiere'.
'Of course. And what was you opinion on the film?' I asked.
And since that time there was another date, perhaps the most productive of the lot.
'I'm perfectly happy with The Boy, I really hope The Dude doesn't call. In fact, if he does I won't pick up' she said, the night before.
In fact, If I'm honest, I began to doubt whether she would go out with The Dude again.
A text later that day:
'He asked me to Salsa, how I could I refuse?' Indeed, how could she?
Where The Boy kept her indoors and away from his friends, The Dude showed her off and taught her to salsa. Where The Boy calls and calls and doesn't tire, despite the mundane conversation, The Dude hardly ever communicates. In this respect, they are similar, both he and Katerina. Playing the unclingy game is something both are apt are - thorough professionals.
So, that night, when Aliena and I returned from our night and the flat was dark and silent I'd assumed she had returned back to his.
This was until the door went and down she came, wrapped in a turquoise towel, hair dishevelled, wearing glasses, all the better to see us I'm sure.
'Do you want a condom?' I asked
'I don't need a condom to suck' she replied, and off she went, aqua to the wind.
And the morning after, as soon as I heard the door bang shut I scrambled to the window and peered out for the first sight of The Dude. Misery! They'd already gone!
On the night of fumbling, Katerina declared that his bum was too soft.
'The Boy has a great bum, a better bum' she said.
Alas, i am pleased. Pleased that she now has choices. Comparisons to make, different bums to compare, cocks to compare.
Where The Boy walks behind her, The Dude holds her hands, and for those moments they are together, they are each others.
Riding the dual carraigeway like this, it must be thrilling.
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